


AliveDead

by enigmaticdrblockhead



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:19:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4906978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticdrblockhead/pseuds/enigmaticdrblockhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he didn't feel like he was dying he could say that he'd never felt so alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AliveDead

He is nothing but empty pockets. Leaning against the stone  
building he sits and watches them go by. Moving forward and  
walking past, they ignore his plight and give only isolation.

Out of some sick inner desperation, his body continues on. Blood  
still pumping and heart still beating, by definition he is  
alive. Life. To him it is nothing but lying down. 

His right hand almost seems stiff. Fingers are curved upward to  
show a gray palm. He begs for whatever they can give. He is  
never lucky.

Sitting on the street he watches them pass him by. All who seem  
so happy, so careless to the darkness that surrounds him. They  
wear bright clothes, steamed and pressed, fresh and new. He  
wears a suit but can't recall where he got it from. It's an old  
one though. The cuffs have worn away from the extensive use and  
the shoulders have hardened due to excessive moisture and  
mildew. The once white dress shirt is stained yellow from sweat  
and vomit. Dress pants just barely hang onto his thin hips.

His sole uniform just clings to him by a thread. A fear might be  
that if the wind blew just strong enough it would simply fall  
apart. As would he.

Sometimes others who are like him feel sympathy. Sometimes they  
bring him scrapes of food since he is never fortunate enough to  
gather any. Sometimes. They have all left him now. He is not  
worth the trouble, to beg extra for a sick and thin creature.

If he is lucky he finds a wrapper from an old hamburger with  
some mustard and mayonnaise soaked onto the paper. But then he  
is rarely lucky.

When the others were with him, they used to talk to him. Even  
though he never had the strength to reply back, he enjoyed the  
conversation. Watching the smiling faces pass him by he  
remembers one such memory.

"What do you dream of?"

Dream? What would that be? His mind is clouded and muddy. A man  
with nothing to think of has nothing to dream of. He is nothing  
but an empty shell, waiting to be filled with the next story.

While lying on used TV boxes with the others he would often  
stare at the sky. He understood nothing of its significance but  
it brought him comfort. And when sleep would visit him, his mind  
would become an empty void. No stars or moon to brighten the  
darkness, only the shadows offered him solace.

But they are all gone now. He assumes it has happened once  
before. Before he was an empty man. Maybe he was something more.  
A somebody with a someone.

Sometimes someone would look at him. And for a moment he thought  
he might understand them. Might be able to read into them. To  
detect their behavior; their very soul. But they leave him, as  
do they all.

It has begun to rain.

It is going to be a bad storm. Still he sits against the wall.  
Hand stretched out and fingers fixed in place. Like a statue, he  
is nothing. He has no reason no explain why he begs. Perhaps it  
is a blessing that he doesn't think about himself and his role  
in the grand scheme of things like all those around him. He  
almost smiles at that thought. To have nothing is to be blessed?

The rain hits him harder now. Rain splashes in his face burning  
his eyes, but he doesn't flinch. The footsteps are more erratic  
than before. People rushing by in an attempt to get indoors.

Like him, they too have become desperate. If only they felt this  
way more often, then maybe they would look at him and feel  
something other than disgust.

Despite the cold, his body is flushed and he begins to feel hot.  
Closing his eyes he allows his mouth to open wider, taking in  
the fresh, moist air. It feels wonderful. A drink from the gods,  
and he laps up as much as he can.

If he didn't feel like he was dying he could say that he'd never  
felt so alive.

His eyes open to the foggy gray world. Out of the storm a hand  
reaches out to him. A figure cloaked in darkness kneels down to  
see his eyes.

Was it Death coming to claim him as his own?

Firm and wrinkled hands wrap around his soggy gray fingers.  
The hand pulls his wrists down to his side. There was no need  
to beg anymore.

Droplets submerge his eyes and his vision worsens. It is a man,  
a tall man. He looks at him, not in disgust like all the others, but in pity.   
The shadowed man removes his trench coat and wraps it around him.

If only he could tell the man how hot he already was and how the  
coat only made it worse. Still, he knows it is cold outside and  
he is shielded from the wet.

He allows himself to be cloaked in the shadows. The man leans  
forward, tugging on his worn and ragged clothes. The seams tear  
under his strength as he pulls him up.

His body goes slack under the stranger's weight. Like a limp ragdoll  
his limbs slacken and his head flops back. His mouth opens  
ingesting more of pouring rain.

A strong hand grabs his neck and pulls his head forward towards  
his. Before the darkness engulfs him completely he listens to  
hear the man's sadness.

"Mulder."

**Author's Note:**

> So for some reason I though maybe the aliens weren't nice enough to drop him off near a hospital with him memories intact. And then my mind got real dark and I thought 'what if he was homeless?' Poor Mulder.


End file.
